Uncharted Territory
by SomewhereApart
Summary: Things are a mess, things are horrible, so she’s genuinely surprised when she slides up next to him and whispers a suggestion in his ear, and he nods imperceptibly and watches her walk away. Charlotte/Cooper


She watches Cooper from across the room as he talks to Pete and Sam. (She's not sure why Pete and Naomi are even here – this is the Oceanside Christmas party, and they're not Oceanside anymore. Then again, they seem to fit in around here more than she ever has, so maybe it doesn't matter.) Things are bad right now, bad as they've ever been. Worse even than those first few weeks after Archer, when she could hardly bear to touch him under the weight of all that guilt, and he was trying so damned hard to act like none of it mattered and everything would be fine.

No, that was child's play compared to the chilly silence of sleeping with their back's turned in the same bed, of their morning routines now so carefully choreographed to avoid each other as much as possible. That was nothing compared to the subtle digs he makes at her in the office, in front of everyone else, or the private remarks – nothing subtle about them – when they get home.

Things are a mess, things are horrible, so she's genuinely surprised when she slides up next to him and whispers a suggestion in his ear, and he nods imperceptibly and watches her walk away. A minute later, he's joining her in the stock closet, muttering something about how they both have offices with couches, and wouldn't that be more comfortable for this sort of thing.

But his hands are on her hips, his body pressed in close to hers in the tight space, and she thinks this is just fine, thankyouverymuch. Closest he's been to her in weeks, it seems. But what she says is, "Mmm, but this is more fun." She nips at his lip, slides her arms up around his neck. "We've done sex in the office before – both our offices here, St. Ambrose, and my old one downstairs. But broom closet – that's uncharted territory."

They're flush now, torso-to-torso, one of her legs rising until he skims his fingers up the back of her thigh, up, up, up, and his fingers find nothing but skin, more skin, and damp heat. He looks pleasantly surprised at her lack of underthings; she just quirks an eyebrow at him suggestively.

"You planned this." It's not exactly accusatory, but it's not as enthusiastic as she'd like.

"I may have had it in mind," she concedes, tilting her hips to press into his teasing touches. "Been wantin' you like crazy." He presses closer, slides his thumb over her clit and she gasps. "So why don't we, uh, make less with the talkin' and more with the doing."

He murmurs, a "yes, ma'am" against her lips, and they're off. Hot kisses and maddening touches, her fingers flipping open the buttons of his shirt, detouring to drag her nails over his nipples just the way he likes. He still has one hand between her thighs, two fingers knuckle-deep in her now, drawing up moans and hisses of pleasure as his free hand tugs at the zipper on the side of her dress. He drags it down just far enough for her to shrug her arms out of it, then spends exactly three seconds admiring the holiday-red lace of her bra before tugging the cups down and out of the way, and slipping his fingers out of her so he can hoist her up against the shelving behind her.

The whole unit rocks and rattles as he pins her body there with his, and she thinks this was maybe a very bad idea, logistics-wise, because there's no way everything is going to stay on those shelves. But then he latches his mouth onto one stiffened peak, sucking hard and nipping gently and the only thing she cares about is biting back the delighted moans that are choking her now.

It's been seventeen days since the last time, and she needs him, _needs_ him, so she fumbles a hand between them and yanks at his belt until it's free, then makes quick work of his button and fly. One little shove of elastic waistband, and he's in her hand, hot and hard (thank God, because it's been hit or miss lately and right now she doesn't think she can handle the way he gets when he can't get it up). She strokes him as he switches to the other breast, nips and sucks and licks, and she can't wait any longer.

Hips swivel into place, her hand guiding him to just the right spot as his hands cup her ass and squeeze. And then he's sliding into her, and she breathes his name at the familiar pleasure, finds his mouth and kisses him again. There's nothing romantic about it, no real finesse, just quick, hard strokes in and out of her, but God, God, _God,_ it's enough, so good, feels so good. She can't keep her mouth shut, can't keep from whispering encouragement and gasping her pleasure in his ear.

Cooper's unusually quiet, but that's par for the course lately. He buries his face in her neck, hot breath washing against her chest, teeth nipping at her collarbone, and then he finds just the right spot, and she cries out before she can help it. He fucks into her again and she tucks her face against his throat to muffle the sounds as she moans and moans, ecstasy rising higher and higher. She keeps one arm locked around his neck, then slips the other hand between them, shaky fingers finding her clit and rubbing as he moves faster, harder, deeper, and then she's the one biting his collar as she comes hard, wave after wave of white-hot pleasure sizzling under her skin.

A moment later, he grunts, thrusts jerkily once, twice, and spills into her with a groan that sounds like the beginning of her name.

They're still for a few, blissful seconds, the only sounds their heavy breathing and the distant din of the partygoers. Then he lowers her until her feet touch the ground again, zips up, and turns his attention to picking up the handful of items that did, indeed, fall from the shelves while they did their business. She tucks herself back together, adjusts her bra, rights her dress, smoothes her hair. She'll need to sneak into her office and reapply lipstick, but other than that, she thinks she's presentable.

He's almost there – just closing the buttons on his shirt, and she reaches her hands out to help him, because there's a part of her that's afraid if she doesn't touch him again, he'll just walk on out of there wordlessly and leave her feeling used and cheap. At least now she gets a comment – "I got it."

She flips the last two buttons closed anyway, then tugs him in for another kiss, this one lighter, teasing. Nothing about them is light and teasing lately, but she likes to pretend in moments like this.

"I love you," she breathes, and, "Merry Christmas."

"I'm Jewish," he reminds, and she pretends it doesn't hurt that he doesn't return the first half of her statement.

"Merry Christmas to me, then," she murmurs, forcing a smirk and pressing her lips to his one more time before she opens the door and slips out. The expression falls as soon as her back is to him.

She ducks into her office, freshens up, and rejoins the party. He's back with Sam, and Addison now, as if nothing has happened.

She's still wet between her thighs, both from herself and from him, and she wishes now that she'd worn underwear, but no matter. That's what she tells herself lately, to get through this – no matter. He's mean, and he's cold, but no matter. They'll be okay. They'll weather this. This will pass. She's almost sure of it.


End file.
